The Other Side
by BlondeChick2009
Summary: The miles can't keep her from going back there. Takes place after the series finale. Oneshot. (Ava/Boyd)


A/N: Again, spoilers abound. I'm late to the Justified party, so I don't know how much traffic I'll get, but I've got a lot of pent up Ava/Boyd feelings, and this is certainly not the only story I'll be writing for them. My inspiration for this one was Adele's Hello. Not to worry, though. It isn't a Songfic with the lyrics attached. I think that sort of fic is outdated, yes? Ah, the good years.

I wrote this one because, if you've seen the end of the show, you'll understand why Adele's Hello struck a nerve for me and the lovely couple I affectionately refer to as AVOYD (at all costs).

...

 **The Other Side**

Ava's mind has not caught up with her.

Sometimes it seems to find her, seems to work with her body cohesively as she navigates the present. When it seems this way, everything no longer intimidates her, because everything is no longer new. The streets, the houses, the stores, the faces. When her mind is here with her in the present, Ava is steady. She comes and goes, still vigilant and primed, but in moments of such calm clarity, the tightness she has carried in her shoulders for at least four years lessens.

Many times, though, her mind is far away, and nothing can call it back to her. Not the new streets, houses, stores, or faces. Not the ocean pulverizing the shore and cliffs—a sound she never imagined she'd get used to when she first arrived on the western banks. Sometimes not even Zachariah's crying can pull her thoughts back across the distance of time and space. When this happens, the guilt and grief are nearly unbearable, and several days will pass before she forgets to watch, and her mind begins to float away again.

When her mind isn't with her, it's with him.

She imagines a cell. It's never hard; she knows what a cell looks like, what it is. She knows the smell and the fear and the claustrophobia caused by no room and too many bodies that no longer care about personal space. She knows the threats that taunt from all sides. She leaves indents from her fingernails in her palms when her mind goes there. She sweats.

She sees him, so clearly at times, that her breath is sucked from her lips, and the little ranch home's kitchen becomes the farm house kitchen and she's leaning against the sink watching him move about the room. The new living room is the old one where he sits on the couch and makes plans on the phone. She makes breakfast in the morning and watches Zachariah flipping through his picture books, and then she's back there watching someone different read giant, daunting books about life.

These moments wound her the most. When Zachariah looks just like him.

...

In her mind, the one that is back there, she's called a thousand times. Logically, the prison, illogically, his number. She's sat and dialed out the numbers, has listened to the ringing, has felt her heart screaming at her as she waits, and has hung up before she can imagine an answer.

One day when she is fully present, she picks up the house phone and dials the farm house number. She doesn't sit and think it over; it is a self-inflicted dare. _Can I do this thing?_ The phone rings. She had made sure to dial out for long distance. The automated voice that answers nearly makes her shriek. _The number you have dialed is no longer in service._

She wonders if the house still stands. It has to. There was nothing wrong with it except the people who had lived there. When she's laughing and playing with Zachariah, she decides that a nice family lives there now, with a dog or two. They plant their own vegetables and dry their clothes on the lines.

...

In the present she stands outside at night, looking up at the stars. She decided on this place because she couldn't leave everything behind. She kept the sky. Back there, the stars were clear, and she could pretend to be anywhere in the world when things got hard during her marriage. Later, she could be thankful for them shining down when she had made the first move to bring her lips to his.

He can't see the stars from a cell.

She's sorry. So sorry, a thousand times sorry for how it ended, for how she betrayed him.

In the present Zachariah runs around the yard catching lightning bugs, giggling up a storm, and she can't afford to be sorry.

...

It had been so easy, once she had let him in. So easy to love him, she never understood how she hadn't always. It was easy and relieving to watch him work, plan, speak. She allowed herself to fall into his eyes or his motions so many times, she didn't know where she ended and he began.

She's back there, remembering how quick she was to fall asleep to his voice. Here, it keeps her awake at night.

...

Her mind focuses on the good parts, when it sidles into the past. Clings to the memories that don't make her cringe. Her present mind tires of the games, occasionally, and reminds her of prison, of shooting him, of running, of crouching before him as he stared down at her with such wild remorse. The clicks of the trigger still wake her up at night.

It is easy, while thinking on the good, to imagine herself as having been free. Free from an abusive marriage, free to love and live as she wanted. And then she had found herself in prison, had found herself as a C.I., had found herself trying to flee.

In the end there had been too much difference…she hadn't been cut out to be his partner, to live his life with him. And now…

She is free from the past but only just. Forever she looks over her shoulder, fearful for Zachariah's well-being more than her own. One day it finally clicks. It took so long, but now she forces her present mind to take over when she falls too far. It takes time.

...

As the expanse between past and present lengthens, Ava finds it easier to stay put. It hurts less to stay put. She watches Zachariah, listens to him, moves and works and stays for him.

Soon, her two minds merge. She's aware of when it happens. One day, she's picking Zachariah up from school, and he's telling her about his day at staggering length, and her single mind flashes back there, and she thinks,

 _Just like your father._

It doesn't hurt. Or maybe just a tingle of ache. Maybe it will crash into her later, like the waves on the shore, and maybe she'll cry for the thousandth time. But right now, she stays in the car with Zachariah, and smiles at his story. Maybe one day, she'll be able to say it out loud, to him: Just like your father.

...

One day, when he's out—she knows this will happen, because he wouldn't be Boyd, otherwise—maybe they will meet. Maybe she will ask him to a café. Somewhere out in the open, somewhere she can lay all her cards before him. Maybe time will have healed their wounds and they can meet without anger or fear.

Maybe he will refuse to see her. Maybe his heart no longer hurts enough to care.

But to soothe her mind, Ava will have to make the first move and call.

...

"Hello?"


End file.
